


4:27am, February 15th

by dear_monday



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: "What'sup?It's ass o'clock in the morning and you're sitting out here in the rain like a fucking freak, that's what'sup. Seriously, what the hell?"After the events of Valentine's day 2017, Charlie shows up on Dee's doorstep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set shortly after S12E08, The Gang Tends Bar. Contains canon-typical references to drug and alcohol abuse.

The buzzer woke Dee in the early hours of the morning, shattering the quiet. She lay still for a moment, hoping whoever it was would go away if she didn't answer.  
  
It buzzed again.  
  
She groaned, and sat up. When she'd come home from the bar earlier, all she'd wanted was to have a couple of beers and pass out, and now some jackass had woken her up at--she squinted at the glowing numerals on her alarm clock--4:27am, Jesus Christ. She got up and staggered out into the living room, barking her shin on the corner of the coffee table.  
  
"Augh, motherfucking cocksucking son of a... _what?_ " she snapped, stabbing at the button.  
  
"Hey, uh, Dee?" It took her a moment to place the voice. It was the bitch who lived down the hall, the one who kept trying to make small talk with Dee when they met in the fucking elevator.  
  
"Goddamnit," said Dee, "You'd better have a damn good reason for waking me up or I swear to god, bitch, I will kick down your door and--"  
  
"There's a dude here, he asked me if I knew what number you were at. I think he's been out here for a while, you want me to let him in?"  
  
"Do I... Jesus Christ, no, I don't want you to let him in!" Dee knew she'd already pissed off a lot of people this year. "Who the fuck is it? What does he look like?"  
  
"Uh. Short, I guess. Dark hair. Beardy. Sounds pretty stoned. Looks kind of homeless."  
  
Charlie. For fuck's sake. "He has a home," she said, wearily, rubbing her eyes. "Alright. Don't let him in, okay? I'll come down."  
  
Dee pulled on the sneakers she'd left by the door earlier, leaving the laces untied, and marched out into the dark hallway. The elevator clanked and rattled its way down to the foyer, and she stomped out again. Cautiously, she eased open the front door to see a small, hunched figure, staring out into the rain. It was coming down hard, great sheets of water that turned into sparks when they passed through the thin yellow light of the last working streetlight on the block.

"Charlie?" He didn't look around. She inched closer and nudged him with her foot. "What are you doing out here?"

He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes going wide like he was surprised to see her there. "Oh. Hey, Dee, what's up?"

"What's _up?_ It's ass o'clock in the morning and you're sitting out here in the rain like a fucking freak, that's what's _up_. Seriously, what the hell?"

"Aw, I don't... I don't know." He got unsteadily to his feet and stuck his hands in his pockets. He was soaked through, his clothes plastered to his body and his hair stuck flat to his skull. A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. He had a vague, unfocussed look on his face. High, then, or maybe just really fucking drunk. "I don't remember."

"Jesus Christ, you jackass, you're gonna drown out here. You think you can remember how to get home?"

"Um," he said. He was swaying slightly, like he was really working just to keep himself upright. Then his face cleared, splitting into a big, goofy smile. "You made me a valentine," he said.

"Yeah," she said, smiling back, just a little bit. "And you sang me that lame-ass song, so I guess we're even, huh?"

"Guess so," he said. He was still smiling too. The rain was still coming down, but he didn't seem to have noticed.

She sighed. "You stink like a wet dog," she told him. "Come inside."

He trailed after her, dripping all over the floor as she pulled him back into the dingy foyer and then the noisy elevator, through the hallway and into the bathroom of her apartment. "Get in the shower," she said. "I'm gonna go find you something to sleep on."

"Okay," he said, agreeably, and she turned back to the living room. He would've been happy to sleep on the floor - he was like a stray cat, he'd sleep anywhere - but clearing a big enough space was going to take more tidying than she could be assed to do at fuck o'clock in the morning and the couch was piled high with empty beer cans and takeout containers and other crap. Instead, she kicked a small pile of dirty clothes off the end of her bed and stuck her vibrator back in the nightstand, then went back to the bathroom. He hadn't bothered to close the door.

"Charlie? It's your lucky night, but you have to promise not to puke in my bed or so help me god, I swear I'll... hold on. What did you do with all your...? Oh, goddamnit, Charlie, are you in there with your clothes on?"

"You told me to get in the shower!" he called, his voice bouncing off the tiles. He pulled the plastic curtain aside and stood there, blinking confusedly at her.

"Not with all your clothes on, you asshole! Goddamnit. Just... look. Come out here." She grabbed the stretched-out collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the bathtub. He stumbled, his sneakers squeaking on the porcelain.

"Hey, hey, hey!" he protested. "What the--what are you doing, Dee?"

"We shower with our clothes _off_ , dickface. Off. Jesus Christ. Come on, arms up. Arms _up_. There you go. God, you fucking reek. Were you in the sewers again?" She peeled his shirt off and dropped it, and it fell to the floor with a wet splat. There was still a distinct smell of wet dog in the air. She bent down and started pulling at his shoelaces, trying to get them undone. One was so worn through that it broke with one good yank, but it took her a minute to untie the other one, swearing under her breath with Charlie swaying slightly and occasionally grabbing at her shoulders for balance.

"Aw, shit," she muttered, more to herself than to him, looking down at her broken nail. "I should've left you outside to freeze, you dumbass. You're not even gonna remember this in the morning. Shoes off, come on. One at a time."

Charlie obligingly let her pull his sodden sneakers off. They were filthy, and she tried to touch them with as little skin as possible. She knew where they'd been.

"Pants," she said, getting to her feet again and going for the button on his jeans.

"Hey, hold on, hold on. You tryna bang me again?" he said. He was winter-pale under the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, his shoulders dusted with freckles and water glistening in his eyelashes. His mouth had turned up into a weird, sideways smile, and she felt a mingled pang of affection and annoyance. Sweet, sly, stupid Charlie.

"Oh, yeah," she said, working his jeans down and kicking them into the corner. "This, right here? This whole thing you've got going on? Totally irresistible."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh." She tugged his underwear off with one finger. She knew where that had been, too, and she really, really didn't want to touch it. "You're dynamite. Back in the tub, Magic Mike." She turned him around and shoved him gently back into the bathtub. The water was still running, steaming up the mirror. She handed him the soap. "Here. You know what this is for?"

He gave her an affronted look that would've been more effective if he'd been able to focus his eyes on her. "I know what soap is for."

"Well, you could've fooled me. And when was the last time you washed your hair?"

He snorted, making a half-hearted swipe at his junk with the soap. "You don't _wash_ hair, Dee."

"You don't... Jesus. Of course _you_ don't. Goddamnit." She kicked off her own sneakers, stepped into the tub and grabbed the bottle, squeezing until it wheezed and coughed up the last smear of dollar store strawberry shampoo.

"S'nice," he said, dreamily, his eyes falling shut as he tipped his head back. If he really had been a stray cat, he would have been purring. Her good pajamas were getting wet.

"Oh, you like this?" she said, working the shampoo into his tangled hair. "It's a little thing us grownups like to call personal hygiene. Shut up and let me work, I want to go back to bed."

The water had turned cold by the time she'd managed to manoeuvre him back under the jet to rinse him off. She turned it off and stepped out, shivering.

"Here," she said, handing him a ratty towel. He made a noise that could have been _thanks_ and gave himself a perfunctory rubdown while she kicked his wet clothes and shoes into one corner. He was still damp when she looked back around, but she figured that he was dry enough. He was swaying on his feet, and she grabbed him before he could brain himself on the sink.

"Whoa, whoa. Come on, hold on. There you go." She wrapped one arm around his shoulders, immediately sagging under his weight. She had a few inches on him, but he was stocky and heavy and stumbling so badly he was making himself very difficult to shift. Slowly, she half-dragged-half-carried him through to the bedroom.

"I don't mind taking the couch," he said, earnestly. He was still slurring a little bit. She gave him maybe two minutes before he blacked out completely.

"Nah," she said. "I can't be fucked to move all that shit. Bed. Here, put this on." She threw him a balled-up Phillies t-shirt. It had been hers while she was pregnant and then Mac's while he was fat, and it had been washed so many times the color had faded and the cotton had gone thin and soft. She watched Charlie struggle to jam his head through one of the sleeves for a minute before she took pity and helped him into it. His damp hair was already drying into a weird, fluffy swirl.

"This smells weird," he said, sniffing suspiciously at the collar. "Like chemicals. And kind of like... flowers?"

"That's detergent, you dickhead."

" _This_ is detergent?" He sniffed it again. "No shit. This is pretty sweet."

She dug a pair of boxers out of the drawer. She didn't know whose they'd been originally. Dennis and Mac's shit still turned up in her laundry from time time, relics of the weeks they'd spent sleeping in her living room, but Dennis wore his jeans too tight for boxers and Mac claimed they did nothing for his ass. They'd probably been left behind by a one night stand who'd taken off in a hurry. She handed them to Charlie and he pulled them on, steadying himself on the doorframe.

"In the bed, asshole," she said, yawning, and prodded him towards the edge of the mattress.

 

*

 

Dee woke up with Charlie wrapped around her like an octopus, his beard tickling the back of her neck. His chest was pressed against her back, his feet tangled up with hers, one of his arms draped over her waist. Her first instinct was to kick him off, but the heat was on the fritz again and he was so warm. The curtains were open, just a little bit, and a slice of bright sunshine was falling across the pillow.

"Tickles," she said, sleepily.

"Mmf? Aw, shit, I'm sorry," he mumbled, wriggling away and trying to untangle his arms from around her.

"Noooo. Nonono. Stoppit. Come back here."

"Okay." He wriggled back in.

"You're a goddamn space heater," she murmured. He smelled clean and he didn't kick or hog the covers like she did and he wasn't grinding his dick against her or trying to feel her up. She'd shared beds with worse. He made a soft, sleepy noise, nuzzling into her hair. They lay there like that for a little while, Dee floating somewhere between asleep and awake.

"Okay," he said, a little while later, unwrapping his arms from around her and rolling out of bed. "Gotta piss."

"Yeah, yeah." She stretched and burrowed deeper under the blankets as he wandered out into the living room. The stretched-out Phillies t-shirt was slipping sideways, falling off his shoulder, his hair sticking up crazily where he'd been sleeping on it. She closed her eyes again, listening to his footsteps receding.

"Hey, Dee," he yelled, from the bathroom. "Did you wash me or something last night? I smell weird."

"Yeah, I washed you, you dumbass," she called back. "You were filthy."

"Well, yeah." he sounded confused. "But you didn't need to _wash_ me."

She gave up, and closed her eyes again.

She dozed for a little while longer before giving in and levering herself out of the bed. Charlie's clothes were still on the bathroom floor where she'd left them, the wet dog smell still hanging in the air. She wondered whether she'd be able to get them into the dumpster outside without him noticing. Detergent could only do so much. This shit didn't need to be washed, it needed to be salted and burned, probably by a priest. She wandered back out into the living room and found Charlie leaning out of the open window, smoking one of her cigarettes. He didn't seem any the worse for wear for whatever he'd been on last night.

"Light me one of those, will you?"

He held the new one in his mouth as he lit it, presenting it to her like something out of an old movie.

"Gross," she said, but she took it anyway. They stood in silence for a little while, blowing smoke out of the window. It was nice. For the first time since he'd shown up on her doorstep last night, she thought about it. She hadn't meant to sleep with him. She hadn't even been thinking about it, but he'd been talking about how good they were together and what a good team they made, and he'd looked at her - looked at her mouth, like maybe he was thinking about kissing her - and she'd looked at him, and she'd thought, _oh_. He hadn't made a big deal out of it afterwards, but he'd touched her like he'd meant it. He'd been sweet.

It was eleven thirty-two, according to the wall clock over the TV, which meant it was past one already. She was hungry. She wanted another cigarette, a black coffee and a plate of curly fries, in that order. "You wanna get lunch?"

He looked at her - looked at her mouth - and smiled, just a little bit, and said, "Sure. Let's get lunch."


End file.
